Pulse
by BleedingHeartsoftheWorldUnite
Summary: Chris D'Amico never knew what friendship was, nor happiness, but he could still feel the isolation and know that he was far from happy... But he knew that if only he could win his father's approval, than just maybe, he could could become acquainted with it.
1. Dinner

One thing he never understood about mankind was not the fact that despite petty differences, the human race somehow managed to ultimately long for the same thing, but why so many yearned for untold wealth when countless mediums depicted the hollow emptiness that resulted in the material. Comics, movies, television, and even music spelled out the misery money caused, and yet none of it was enough to dissuade a single person. Was it really so bad to live without convenience? Eons ago people did just fine without things like toilet paper, but heaven help the innocent when it came down to the last roll in today's mind. Yeah, he came from money and therefore never knew what it was like to struggle on a daily basis with the constant worry of where the next meal was going to come from, but one thing that social standing didn't change was the knowledge of happiness.

Chris had no idea of what true happiness was, of if that warm, fuzzy feeling so frequently displayed in the movies was real or just some hoax to lull away the pain for a fleeting moment. He had no idea of what it felt like to play hard and fail, to share in some triumphant moment of self-realization that blew away the disappointment of loss. He didn't know. Before middle school, he had gone to public school, but then he was bumped up to private, and at the start of high school, he was home schooled by various tutors - none of which seemed to last long at their jobs for whatever reason. Even though they could have afforded it a hundred times over, there was never any big party masquerading a bid for friends, and if only for the reason that he was a shy kid, nothing ever came from forced interactions. Honestly, it made him feel like a freak, but he found some solace at least in his comic books; as much as he loved them, the comics were probably his undoing. Chris D'Amico never knew what friendship was, nor happiness, but he could still feel the isolation and know that he was far from happy...

But he knew that if only he could win his father's approval, than just maybe, he could could become acquainted with it. If only he could hear his father say that he were proud of his son! But that was probably never going to happen, because in the vicious circle he called life, there was just no opening in which he might prove himself. He tried to show an interest in his father's business, hoping that his dad would teach him the ropes, but every time that Chris tried, Frank would shove him out. Anyone would say that he was being a good father, trying to protect his son, but couldn't anyone see that Frank's refusal was only making Chris weaker? He wasn't very athletically inclined to start with, but instead of aggravate that condition, shouldn't they foster the seeds of his interest and allow him the opportunity to change? You can't get better without practice, and yet they all seemed to think that his failure was his own fault, that he was just the special kid, whoever 'they' were.

That was why his father's announcement had come as a bit of a shock to him...

Seated at the table one night for a nice family dinner, fresh vegetables steaming in glass bowels besides hand-woven baskets of garlic bread, the table had been set with the blue china. Ordinarily, they ate with either the plain white dishes or the eggshell and cream hued china, and on holidays it was the florals, so even before Frank had so much as hinted that he might have news, his wife and son cautiously awaited the part of the night when he would divulge his news. Angie was more troubled by this possible development than her son.

Pouring his wine into the tall-stemmed glass, Frank swished the amber liquid around for a moment or two before looking over at his family. They seemed to be expecting him to make a speech at any moment, and he saw little point in drawing this out much more. "As you know," Married to the man for twenty years, Angie knew that it wasn't a good thing to hear those words. "I've been thinking about you getting your first girlfriend - that's probably not going to happen anytime soon." Frank was actually a pretty good father when it came to his son, but there were still those moments of 'should you really be saying that to your son?'.

Poking at his peas with his fork, Chris muttered moodily under his breath, "And who's fault is that?"

His mother shot him a stern glance that could have instantly frozen the pork-based dinner the were enjoying. "Christopher, how many times have I told you about mumbling?!"

"Sorry, mom." Expect he wasn't. Setting his fork down on the plate, just next to the potatoes, Chris looked over at his father, speaking as if it were the most fascinating topic in the world to him. "I was just wondering what you came back with."

Frank D'Amico, the infamous mobster thinly veiled as a lumber industrialist, knew that his son was - for lack of a better term - a loser. He holed up in his room most of the time, which wasn't unheard of for a teenage boy of his age, admittedly, but for fuck's sake, he was probably just sitting up there reading his goddamn comics! Jesus, he was in fucking high school now, and he hadn't even had a girlfriend yet! God fuckin' help him if he was gay... Frank loved his kid, but he just couldn't handle that shit, mob boss or not. In fact, the more Frank thought about his son reaching adulthood without having had sex with a woman, the more convinced he became that it would be a good idea to intervene with his son's love life (or lack thereof), and before he knew it, he was making certain _arrangements_...

Smug at his success in this endeavor to find his son a suitable girlfriend, Frank just put it out there. "I found a girl I'd like you to meet with tomorrow."

Did Frank just hire their son a hooker?! Angie's eyes almost burst from their sockets when Frank informed Chris of his new schedule. "Frank, honey, did you just hire our boy a prostitute?"

"What prostitute? I ain't paying no one, and did you hear me say that I wanted them to have sex? What kind of a fucking father do you take me for?"

Might as well have said it. "Dad, I don't-"

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Frank turned on his boy, "You don't what? You like girls, don't you?" He didn't give Chris enough time to answer that. "Of course you do! So, you're going to go meet with her tomorrow, and I don't want to hear anymore on the subject. From anybody." He glanced over at his wife sharply, let down by the lack of enthusiasm for his plan. Especially from Chris.

Fuck it all...

* * *

Ok, this story has absolutely nothing to do with "Kiss or Kill", besides one or two small little things, nor does it have to be connected to "Hard to Keep", although there might be small references back and forth.

I am not the owner of Kick-Ass - that would be Mark Millar and John Romita Jr.


	2. First Thing in the Morning

Light - the mortal enemy of nearly all teenagers, subterranean creatures, and traditional vampires alike - was scorching through the lids of his eyes without clemency. Awake - not by his own choice - even before the alarm could screech and blare its universally annoying chime, Chris D'Amico peeked open first one brown iris and than another, glaring over at the window. High in his tower, the sun still hadn't quite reached him just yet, but it was more the existence of the star that had irked him more than the actual arrangement of photons in the earth's atmosphere. Not a morning person by definition, there was more than one reason to be cross, although it could be argued that there was just the one, as they both had one variable in common: his father.

First and most recently, there was his dream last night, in which he had nearly attained everything he had ever wanted. The longer the teen was awake, the more the details slipped away, and there was no doubt that by the afternoon, it would be forgotten entirely, but what did remain was that feeling of achievement - or at least the vague concept of what the emotion might feel like - at being recognized by his father. He had done something, like maybe taking out the competition, and his father had smiled down at him, but just before he could say the words, Chris had to slip away from the dream world to come crashing back to reality...

Which actually brought him to the second thing. Now that he was awake, Chris was just laying in bed while he waited for the motivation to get up, staring around his room, stealing glances at the clock. Like most normal people, his clock was on his nightstand, which was cluttered with an assortment of junk that ranged from thumbtacks to the newest issue of the Fantastic Four. It was also the home to a small stack of folded up legal documents. Or at least they looked like simple legal documents, but they were in fact letters, each one different than the last and drawn by hand, his name on the cover of all but the first couple. It was these messages that made him think of his father, of how last night at dinner, he had just sprung it upon his son that he was fixing him up.

Chances are, that would offend many a soul that their parents had taken it upon themselves to set up a date. It left Chris feeling disgruntled to know that his own father would resort to something that was saved for pathetic adults on the verge of either becoming spinsters, homosexuals, or just committing suicide. His dad wanted to know why he didn't go out on dates? Maybe it was because he was always with a fucking bodyguard that would scare anyone way from approaching him!

Although that wasn't entirely true, because even in spite of the rather blatant obstacle, he had met someone. Well, they hadn't actually met each other, but they were slowly becoming acquainted...

Picking up the very top card - the simplest with a rough sketch of Ultimate Wolverine on the side of an otherwise barren sheath (it should be noted that the first tiding was between the spine of an issue from Earth-1610) - Chris flipped the memo open, reading the content silently.

_That's funny! You're a pretty funny guy. I'm just glad I wasn't in church when I opened your letter. I read out-loud. But to answer you're question, no, I don't think it's strange to re-dub old episodes of the X-Men. Have you ever tried to sync audio from the Venture Bros. with the 2003 Daredevil movie? That is definitely a way to spend a Friday night! You know, unless you have a life. But tell me more about how you first got into comics..._

Setting the epistle back on top of the nightstand, gathering from the display on his clock that he still had another five minutes or so before he had to get out of bed for breakfast, the comic book enthusiast reached for another card in the precarious heap. This one was designed with an eyeball inside of a pair of lips, a drop of Sharpie red blood falling from one corner.

_Tried that recipe you gave me, and thanks to you, I just barely managed to scrape a passing grade from my home ec. class! Not only was it easy and delicious, but now I can say that I can make one dish without worrying about screwing it up. My cooking is terrible! If food could be considered a threat to National Security, I would be one of the most wanted criminals in the world! Trust me, before you gave me that recipe, I would have trusted goop from an atomic wasteland over my own cooking! You really saved my ass..._

For whatever reason, whenever Chris read that last part, he always imagined that she was blushing. As for the recipe she had been talking about, that was actually something he had aimlessly Googled one night when he was bored, but it really was a good dish. Exchanging this letter of thanks for a field of stars that spelled out his first name, he leaned back against his pillow and read.

_I've been thinking about what you said, and you do have a valid point, but you also have to see where I'm coming from too. __So many times I've wondered what it would be like to meet face-to-face, if everything would just kind of melt away, if nothing would change expect for the flow of time (It'd be like a time machine, speeding us through months or even years worth of messages all at once). But then I worry about what could go wrong. __I know that any illusion of me being cool has flown out the window, but I'm still afraid of seeing you in person. We have a pretty good thing going here, don't we? I thought so. But don't misunderstand - hesitant as I am to meet you, I've spent so many nights just imagining what it would be like. You, whispering some innuendo in my ear as way of a greeting..._

There was more to her message, but time was up, the alarm buzzing away the remnants of dreams, signaling the beginning of the day in the real world...

* * *

A round of applause Mieko-chan12, for being the first reviewer! Earth-1610 referrers to Ultimate Marvel. You know, I do believe that this is the first chapter of any story I ever posted to not have any dialogue in it (excluding poetry).

I am not the owner of Kick-Ass - that would be Mark Millar and John Romita Jr.


	3. Waiting For Scarlett Johannson

Before he knew it, it was already time for the date that he wanted absolutely no part of. Chris had repeatedly stated this many a time throughout the day, hoping that at least one person might hear him and try to change his father's mind on his behalf, but apparently they all became deaf whenever he attempted to bring the subject up. The one time that he had made the decision to go to his father like a man and tell him that he didn't want this, the teen realized with a stab that he could not give his father an adequate explanation for why he was so vehemently opposed to this, and knowing his father, he would need one.

The girl who was leaving him those notes wasn't quite anonymous - he knew that her name was Emily - but she may as well have been, because the only other people that knew about their situation was the staff at _Atomic Comics_. He really wouldn't have minded telling his parents about her, were it not for the fact that they would ruin it for him. As she said herself, they had a really good thing going for them, and as curious as he was to see this girl, Chris would rather have this middle school romance then the alternative doom his parents played the harbinger for. With this kind of communication, he could easily envision that he was talking to Scarlett Johansson, but more than that, he could be himself and have a genuine friend for the first time in his life, but he was afraid that if his parents knew, they would find every possible way they could to ruin that. Chris didn't want that, no matter how much he loved his father.

So he backed off somewhat from the obviously scathing tone his face conveyed whenever the date had been brought up, figuring that meeting this bimbo his dad had picked out would only be a one-time thing. That if he did this, everyone would be happy and he might get some recognition for doing something that he really didn't want to do. Fat fucking chance there.

Sojourned in his father's office while they awaited his date's arrival - they had been loitering for twenty minutes now - so Frank could be positive that they not only met up but hit it off, Chris sat back on the couch, grumbling about her lack of punctuality. "She's late."

Frank, adamant to see that they were going to really give this the ol' collage try, was sitting next to his son, reading the same article about the rise of local gang violence for the second time now. He was getting antsy. Antsy was not a place anyone wanted to see the mobster. "Relax, buddy, she'll be here." It sounded to Chris like he was trying to convince himself more than anything else.

Joy. "So how do you know the village bicycle anyways?"

Disapproving of his boy's reaction to his generous efforts, Frank spoke with a reprimanding tone of voice. It was a lot like how he spoke down to his subordinates when they mildly fucked-up for the first time. "Heather's mom is a friend of Uncle Vic's." Which meant that her mother had blown the detective to get out of a speeding ticket. "You," Frank looked up from his newspaper and point at his son. "be nice to her."

Chris merely rolled his eyes. He knew that provoking a tiger was not the way to earn its respect, so he said nothing at all, although if you looked, the distaste on his face was saying a thousand and two words.

* * *

Because Scarlett Johannson is awesome!

I am not the owner of Kick-Ass - that would be Mark Millar and John Romita Jr.


	4. You're Going Down

_Define your meaning of war_  
_ To me it's what we do when we're bored_  
_ I feel the heat comin' off of the blacktop_  
_ And it makes me want it more_  
_ Because I'm hyped up out of control_  
_ If it's a fight, I'm ready to go_  
_ I wouldn't put my money on the other guy_  
_ If you know what I know that I know_

The rock song more suited to a fight club than an art show was blaring throughout the building - more of a garage Chris thought to himself as he scanned the various pieces lining the specially lit wall - shaking several of the photographs that were nearest to the radio. As he strolled passed a rather intriguing figure constructed of melted bicycle parts, Chris mused to himself if this event was intentionally threadbare, or if the host was just that broke and was hoping to pass his monetary misfortune off as some pseudo-political "statement". Either way, not too many people were paying attention to the shabby underground accommodations - their attention was fixed upon two girls circling each other, each just itching to make the first move.

_It's been a long time coming_  
_ And the table's turned around_  
_ 'Cause one of us is going_  
_ One of us is going down_  
_ I'm not running,_  
_ It's a little different now_  
_ 'Cause one of us is going_  
_ One of us is going down_

Eyes blazing like the empty barrel of [insert bad-ass' name here]'s gun, the vision facing Chris' direction was just a little bit shorter than himself - which wasn't saying a whole lot - and at the moment, the most noticeable trait about the angel's appearance was not the dark tendrils dripping with freshly thrown fruit punch, but was the shades of clover and aloe flashing through the spectacle's orbs as she stared forward with nearly blinding intensity. At least, that was the first thing that the young D'Amico boy perceived. Hurt, there was more in her eyes than just simple anger...

Bare back facing him, he didn't need to spare a second glance at the bleach-blonde to know that the girl that had spilled her drink all over the first was his date...

_Define your meaning of fun_  
_ To me it's when we're getting it done_  
_ I feel the heat comin' off of the blacktop_  
_ So get ready for another one_  
_ Let's take a trip down memory lane_  
_ (Do you remember me?)_  
_ The words circling in my brain_  
_ (And what you did to me)_  
_ You can treat this like another all the same_  
_ But don't cry like a bitch when you feel the pain_

It was an understatement to say that Emily and Heather knew each other, because they went all the way back to elementary school, where the blonde had found every possible hell to give Emily - not that the brunette had ever backed down. Sure, Heather had made her cry more times than Emily would like to count, but Emily had managed to stay strong through braces and brake-ups, occasionally slipping up at every other cruel prank in the mean girl handbook. Were it not for her uncle, she probably wouldn't have been able to hold on...

But that was before high school. During that summer between middle school and high school, Emily had went on a small vacation out of the city, and when she came back, it was armed with a Vibranium shield. She wasn't completely untouchable, but she had managed to hold strong. Except, that was _before_ that her Book of the Vishanti was hijacked during gym class. Ok, maybe it had just been her diary (and a really dumb idea to bring to school with her, but it was for a psych assignment), and yet that didn't make it any less of an important artifact!

_It's been a long time coming_  
_ And the table's turned around_  
_ 'Cause one of us is going_  
_ One of us is going down_  
_ I'm not running,_  
_ It's a little different now_  
_ 'Cause one of us is going_  
_ One of us is going down_

Heather, for all of her snobby-whoreishness, had seemed close enough to the host to warrant a personal tour of the make-shift studio. Or maybe she was just 'well-connected'. Regardless, the host - a well-groomed blonde gentleman that looked as if he had frequented the gym at an almost stalker-ish rate - introduced himself as Knight, a close friend to the artist that had inspired the show.

Having strolled along the first row of selections from each collection, the host rolling off names and pointing out various faces along the way as he introduced each project, they had paused at the last one. While Knight had muttered something or other about the last artist, he simultaneously had sought out the artist amongst the revolving crowds. It had almost been a wasted effort, but before long, Knight had found the girl and beckoned her over.

Although Chris didn't see that at first, because he had found himself frozen in place for a number of seconds, eyes transfixed upon a single image. It was the very last on the wall, a mixed media collage of comic book clippings and painted figures; a lone woman was emerging from the middle of a crumpled lily. The background had thrust itself into speaking terms with him, but Chris was no stranger to the subject in the center of the canvas, as he had the original rough sketch of X-23 on his nightstand. Only his was more titillating, because the female that had penned the pose had left selections of hair covering Laura's chest, as opposed to the ripped out heart that had been left hanging from the torso of this one.

Finally realizing that the person responsible for this artistic take on the pain of Logan's healing factor was coming over to greet them, Knight had called over a young woman Chris' age, maybe a little younger. She was grabbed in a simple asymmetrical dress, obsidian with even darker lace, and she looked far from happy about it. Or maybe it was the fact that the blonde escort Frank had hired was suddenly clinging to Chris' arm as if he were the only support in an earthquake.

"The artist of 'Conditions of my Sandwich'. Emily," the living muscle had grabbed her hand once she was close enough, pulling her into the group. "You know Heather." A joke, as Heather was actually the subject of Emily's last collection. "And this is her date-"

"Chris D'Amico." The girl didn't remove her eyes from him once, not after she beheld him gazing upon her painting, the shock evident in her voice.

Knight and Heather wore identical masks of confusion, since Emily had made it sound as if they already knew each other, however Chris knew exactly what she was talking about. "It's you..." There was no hiding the smile on his face when he reached for her hand, nor the surprise and disappointment when she rejected the contact and shied away. "Emily...?"

That might have gone over better, where he not here with _her_. _Heather_. She was a trollop, and if he was here with her, then maybe Chris wasn't the boy she had thought he was when she had written all of those letters. Too emotional to hide her horror at this new development, Emily had teared up and disappeared back into the crowed, cutting a rough path as far from them as she possibly could...

_This is hardly worth fighting for_  
_ But it's the little petty shit that I can't ignore_  
_ With my fist in your face, and your face on the floor_

For what it was worth, he didn't even want to go out with the floozy, but after the trog had finally decided to grace the duo of dip with her presence, his dad just had to personally drop them off at some lame art show. Already writing her off for her tardiness, Chris did somewhat soften his opinion of her when Heather first arrived - she was a hottie, bound in what was one of the shortest, tightest mini-skirts in the history of the world - but her artificial sweetener routine left a rather sour taste in his mouth. Put another way, she spared him only half a glance, giving him the cold shoulder, which naturally his father was blind to.

Wishing that the date would end sooner rather than later, she had convinced his father to take them to this place, although he did give her some credit for getting him to leave the muscle outside of the building. But so far that was the only good she had done. Unless you count her ditching him about five seconds after greeting some of the artists, her elbow locked with his as she dragged him around like some kind of human poodle prior to that.

_It'll be a long time coming_  
_ But you got the message now_  
_ 'Cause I was never going_  
_ Yeah, you're the one that's going down_

Unarmed without the knowledge that they previously knew each other and that Heather's only reasons for agreeing to this sham of a date was to get at Emily, Chris had wandered throughout the entire show virtually on his own; it would seem that his part was done once Emily had run away, so Heather had floated off with a gaggle of sluts she had invited to share in this moment. Miserable cunt.

Searching for Emily, Chris couldn't find her, so he stopped aimlessly walking around and thought to himself 'what would Batman do?'. That was easy! Batman, as Bruce Wayne, would buy an opening! And it just so happened, he already had his eye on a particular piece...

_One of us is going down_  
_ I'm not running,_  
_ It's a little different now_  
_ 'Cause one of us is going_  
_ One of us is going down_

Receipt in hand, Chris had finally found Emily, and it was on the verge of a fight. Failing to see what the entire thing was about, he did gather that the fight was about him...

Snarling like Wolverine after falling into his more feral state, Emily pulled a chunk of ice out of her cleavage and threw it off to the side. "Leave it to a bitch without a braincell between her implants to resort to cheap-shots!"

Almost gloating, Heather smirked at her long-time enemy, "Honey, you and I both know I'm the queen bitch, so get that straight. And what kind of a retard wouldn't use this kind of ammo?!" Nodding over at one of the bimbos, what appeared to be a diary was tossed into her hands, "Let's see... Oh, here's a good one!" Making a show of opening the book, Heather had already book marked the pages of perfect humiliation. Pitching her voice mockingly, she began to read aloud, "I haven't forgotten the first time that I saw him at the comic store-"

And now we're right back where we started, with both girls about to come down to blows, Chris watching from half-way across the room...

_One of us is going down_

* * *

To clarify the dip comment, I love Chris and Frank - they are hilarious - but you have to admit that they can be complete dipshits at times. Seriously, am I the only one that thinks that Chris was the voice of reason in the first movie? And I know already that I failed miserably, but this was me trying my hand at writing something to not take place in chronological order, as well as play with past and present tense. Just in case anyone (and by that I mean everyone) was confused by the way that things went down, I'll explain it:

Heather finally shows up for the date, dressed like a whore (and Chris gets blown off right in front of his father), but she allows an opening for Chris to finally get some breathing room from his bodyguard. They show up at an art show, where one of the artist's has a collection on sale, entitled "The Conditions of my Sandwich". The host is a friend of the artist, who is bitter enemies with Heather. Heather stole the artist's diary while she was in gym, and used it to set up this date with the guy that she had written about liking. Chris realizes (because of the picture he has the rough sketch of) that one of the artists is in fact Emily, whom he has been writing back and forth. They meet, but it goes horribly wrong because of Heather. Emily goes off and cries. Heather ditches Chris. While he wonders on his own, Heather basically goes after Emily again, throwing her punch on her. Setting up a trap, Heather starts to read some of the diary in front of a mix of strangers and people from school, and just as Chris walks up to everyone, he sees that Emily is about to retaliate.

Yeah, that's basically it. Oh, but all of this is set to the _Sick Puppies_ song, "You're Going Down".

I am not the owner of Kick-Ass - that would be Mark Millar and John Romita Jr. However, I do lay claim to Emily, Knight, and Heather. "You're Going Down" is by the band _Sick Puppies_.


	5. Punch and Blood

For a moment, just a moment, Chris thought that Emily was going to back away and do the 'mature' thing, but as he would come to learn, Emily was not the kind of girl to back down without a fight. She might not have won them all, but she faced a majority of her problems head-on.

Just like right now. Taking years and years of pain and anger, the long-suffering artist unleashed over a decade's worth of pent-up aggression, slugging the wanna-be Barbie in the face, UFC-style. Another thing he would later learn about her - Emily was a very big fan of Ultimate Fighting. It showed in the cracking of bones as her raw knuckles collided with Heather's septum, the crunching of cartilage ringing through the sudden silence that was punctured only by the stereo and tears. Repeatedly bringing her fist to the other girl's face as the audience let out its collective breath - the outpouring of blood already considerable with just the first hit alone - she didn't stop until someone had finally felt either bad enough about the brutality of the attack or concerned enough for the amount of gore flying to step in.

Pulling her off of the other girl, a pair of strong hands wrapped themselves beneath her armpits, dragging her through the air. Emily was so blinded by the red, she struck out at the person yanking her from a potential murder charge, limbs flailing as her elbow struck someone else in the surrounding group. That caused the frenzy to explode into an uproar...

Watching uselessly from the sidelines, the other kids in their class either jeered or cheered for the scuffle, but none of them thought very much of calling an ambulance. In fact, despite the countless lenses flashing and recording the beat-down, not a single person had it in their mind to call any sort of official figure, unless you counted the kid who's friend/step-dad was a substitute teacher at Millard Fillmore High School. Poor guy never could live it down amongst a majority of his peers, and his dad was only a sub!

But Chris could give a rat's ass for all he cared about that bullshit. No, his primary concern laid with the girl that had revived WWII-era sexting, whom had not only revealed that she was just as lonely in this world as himself, but that she had a rather extensive if not borderline irrational case of nihilophobia. He wasn't about to jeopardize his one chance at genuine empathy for something as stupid as a simple misunderstanding and bad timing, so he had followed her squirming silhouette outside of the building. Cautiously he approached the simmering boxer after the guy that had pulled her away from his date had let her go, fairly sure that she wasn't about to turn around and go back for more blood. He only gave the young D'Amico boy an admonitory glimpse through strawberry-colored bangs as he returned to the art show. Truthfully he didn't even need that advisory glance, because Chris was a little bit afraid of her and what she might try to do to him, but his desire for actual human companionship was stronger than his disquietude, so he didn't hesitate too much...

"Wait!" Calling out for the huffing pacer, Chris caught sight of a sleek black vehicle parked just outside the building, the driver merely waiting to see if it was time to leave yet. The boy shook his head, indicating that Stu should remain inside the car.

Power-walking in elliptical semicircles to vent the rest of her frustration, Emily only barely heard him over her venomous mutterings, however, Wrath did hear him, so she stopped and turned around. That was a very big mistake on her part, as out of everyone that could have chosen to approach her at this juncture, he was the very last person that she had wanted to see. Longing to bolt in the opposite direction, Chris had closed the space between them and had already grabbed her wrist, preventing a clean escape. She didn't want to, but if he gave her no other option, she would use force to free herself...

Perhaps a bit 90's cliché, Emily's mind couldn't help but to jump to the notion that Chris and Heather were in this together, plotting some grand scheme that would forevermore trap herself in unrelenting humiliation on a more global scale than just New York City. Nevertheless, martyred as she felt, a more sizable part of herself still wanted to have faith in the boy that she had shared all of those letters with, crazy as that sounded. "Wait? For what? Her lawyers to write out the paperwork?"

Clever, he couldn't quite hide the smirk at her comment, "Maybe if they're crazy enough to take on the sharks."

Disarmed by that joke, her resent faltered somewhat as doubt began to set in. Either she was on crack (it wasn't impossible for someone to have spiked the punch, which she had had at least two cups of), or he was saying that he was going to take care of it if the whore was going to be a problem. "Aren't you here with her...?"

Showing his distaste for the idea that he would be anywhere with a harpy like Heather, Chris stuck his tongue out at the very thought of it. "Not by my choice - my dad set it up."

Duh! Of course their situation was too complicated - too precarious - for Chris to say something about Emily to his father, so he was basically forced into this arrangement. After all of the back and forth, they had shared a lot about themselves, so she could easily imagine that that was the situation. Rueful, she mourned the conditions. "...Some way to meet each other, huh?"

'_And you would whisper some innuendo in my ear by way of greeting_'. He thought of how she had imagined this moment to go, of what he had expected himself. This certainly wasn't it. "The punch was a surprise." Leaning forward while keeping the rest of his body distant from her own, Chris whispered into her ear, "But the night's still young."

OK, maybe not the cleverest or even most perverted thing he could have said, but she was touched that he even remembered what she had told him. She was grateful for a lot of things tonight. "Oh yes, because what beats being covered in punch and blood?"

"I have a shower at my place." And since he was supposed to be out with Helen or whatever the scab's name was, something told him that his parents would be a little too busy to notice that he was coming back home with a completely different girl - if they even knew he came back at all.

Taken aback at the invitation, Emily tilted her head to the side, "What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

"The kind that wants to not be covered in punch and blood?" He offered with a slight shrug.

Taking a moment to size him up and what he would probably expect, she had to seriously stop and think about it. On one hand, now that they actually had come face-to-face, she was curious to see where their relationship would go from here, but on the other, she was afraid that he might expect something she wasn't prepared for. And then there were other things to account for as well, such as the fact that her step-mother was home from work for the weekend (wife number four was some kind of model/actress), that she was expected to stay out late if she didn't go home with Knight for the night. And since Knight had been raised to do the brotherly thing (even if it was for his bitchy step-sister that he was on the record as hating), Emily had the hunch she wouldn't be allowed at his place for a while, if she was ever permitted back by the Ross-Marano family. Her own step-sister was off with her director father for that entire week, so she couldn't just slip into the child's room and spend the rest of the night with her. Which really only left uncle Javi, who was off looking for a place closer to his job, so she couldn't go bother him...

Choosing what she hoped to be the lesser of two evils, Emily bit her lower lip as she nodded in consent, "I guess a warm shower would beat watching my Russian-import-turned-step-mother trying to bone my father while both of them are high on high-end tranquilizers..." But she didn't budge just yet. No, she still had to make sure that one end was tied before she could go anywhere, "I know that I may have gotten carried away and said some things in a couple of those letters, but I need to know that you aren't expecting me to do... I mean, I'm not ready for..." She could feel her own cheeks burning fushia. "Anything intimate."

It was his turn to question her impression of him, "What kind of guy do you think I am?"

The kind with serious issues. "The teenage boy kind."

He nodded, as she had a point there, "...Yeah."

* * *

Yep, I just slipped in a nod to a children's television show _and_ my favorite actress/model...

I am not the owner of Kick-Ass - that would be Mark Millar and John Romita Jr. However, I do lay claim to Emily, Knight Ross, and Heather Marano.


End file.
